


Home.

by BillieBleu



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Domestic, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Original Character(s), POV First Person, soft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-07-20 16:51:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 7,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16141448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BillieBleu/pseuds/BillieBleu
Summary: I decided to write a short fic with a first person point-of-view (gender not specified) and... a made-up character based on Noah Centineo. I tried to avoid any gender markers for the narrator to leave as much space to the imagination as possible. I hope whatever you identify as you manage to identify with this first-person voice!Enjoy this journey into soft domestic life.





	1. Welcome home.

The sound of the doorbell made me stop in my tracks, the dish I’d just taken out of the oven still in my hands. The sound fumbling keys and the lock opening made me smile. Bags were dropped softly on the wooden floor. As the sound of footsteps came closer I returned to what I was doing, putting the dish on the counter. Taking off the warm gloves slowly and setting them on the counter next to the spinach and goat cheese lasagna. I was watching the smoke rise from the dish then fade lazily as it reached the window that overlooked the small, rather neglected garden, when I felt a soft kiss on the back of my neck. A delicate brushing of lips against my skin, rather. I closed my eyes and took a breath as a smile reached my lips.

“Good morning,” he said in a low whisper against my neck – the voice of someone who hadn’t slept much. 

I turned to face him. I put a hand on his temple, his cheek, in his hair. I looked at him, his tired eyes and tired smile. I realized I often did this when he came home. Like I was bringing him back into existence – into my every day – with my hands. He had closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. I placed my lips on his. I slowly felt the pressure of his mouth increase into a soft kiss, one hand cupping my face. Happiness. 

“Welcome home,” I said after we finally broke the kiss, looking at him still, suddenly wondering if this place that he saw so little of in the end, felt like one to him – this boy who had gone from living with his parents to living in hotels and temporary rentals or trailers on sets. I only let myself doubt and hope for a second or two, until I saw him look around, taking the place in.

“I’m glad to be here,” he answered. “Home,” he repeated looking towards me again.

I liked the smile on his face as he said it and the delicate hesitation in his every move as he tried to find his ground again after several weeks away. 

“Would you like to eat first or nap first?” I asked.

He took a few seconds to answer.

“The lasagna will still be here in a couple of hours,” I noted.

“Okay. Okay. Nap first, then.”

He said it but stayed where he was, lost in some thought.

“Let’s get your bags,” I suggested.

He followed me as I led the way to the entrance where he had left his things. I grabbed the smaller bag and he the bigger one. We set them down in a corner of the bedroom. For a moment, I looked around at the queen-sized bed we’d slept in so many times before, and the pictures on the wall which he had taken, a book on the night stand that belonged to him. The pennant garland I’d made, the origami cranes. And the soft, late morning sun coming in from the window, through the trees outside. I looked into his eyes. Gave him time to arrive, to let his mind fully make the transition between one life and another. He turned towards me after a few seconds. I put a hand through his hair, stretching my arm to reach his head. I kissed his lips. I felt him relax under my touch. I proceeded to undress him. I helped him out of his oversized hoodie and kept my hands on his chest over his white tee-shirt as he pulled me in for a hug. I closed my eyes for a little while. He then watched me as I took off his tee-shirt. He chuckled when I crouched to unbutton, unzip, take off his pants, and I smiled softly. He took off his socks and looked at me. I opened a corner of the quilt as an invitation. He smiled and turned to face me, laying his head on my shoulder. He took a deep breath.

“Thank you,” he said into my ear. And climbed into bed.


	2. A nap.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picking up right where we left off with the first chapter! The rest of the morning for the 2 characters.

“Thank you,” he said. And climbed into bed.

I sat on the floor facing him.

“You okay?” I asked, reaching a hand to stroke his hair, his forehead.

“Just tired,” he answered, his eyes now staying closed for longer and longer seconds every time he blinked.

“Was it the flight or were you tired before?”

“A little bit of both, I guess. Just general tiredness.”

“Well, you have a few days off now. You can take it slow. We don’t have to do anything. Or we can just do slow things...” I told him. “That sounded weird,” I added as I saw his sleepy smile turn into a laugh. “You know what I mean!”

I loved his laugh. I actually felt a little sad as I watched it disappear behind sleepy eyes. I got up then, deciding to let him sleep for a while. His eyes followed me, intrigued.

“I just want to finish up in the kitchen. Then I’ll come join you,” I explained. “Sleep,” I added.

“But you’re coming back to bed?” He made sure, a slight worry in his low voice.

“Of course.”

I closed the door behind me after giving him one last encouraging smile. The kitchen was a mess. I put away the rest of the spinach, cheese and sour cream in the fridge, cleaned the counter. I was glad to take out 2 plates, 2 sets of utensils, and 2 glasses from the cupboards. I hummed a Sufjan Stevens air as I swept the kitchen. I took a few pictures of the lasagna for my Instagram page. The lighting was nice. 

I remembered when we met. On a grey day at a lunch thing celebrating people who worked for diversity and new types of representation in the media – whatever that meant. It was one of my first event of the type. A blogger and content creator lost among journalists and actors and singers and activists, and a few influencers. I felt so uncomfortable. I was hiding in a corridor somewhere, trying not to seem like I was looking for an exit strategy. Networking had never been my fort. He was looking for a friend/colleague of his. Asked if I’d seen them. I hadn’t. And for some reason, as I was about to turn away and go look somewhere else, he stopped in his tracks and came back. He wasn’t exactly sure who I was. I recognized him of course.

Then I went back to the bedroom. I opened the door delicately. He was sleeping on his side, in the same position I’d left him in. For a second I felt almost surprised to find him here. From the doorway I watched the quilt rise and fall slowly with each breath, making sure he hadn’t heard me. I finally closed the door slowly behind me and made my way to the other side of the bed. I took off my clothes too and put them on the chair in the corner. I slipped under the covers in my underwear. I closed my eyes in appreciation as I felt the warmth of his body surrounding me, contrasting with the chilly air of this early Spring morning. I felt a shiver run down his spine as I tentatively put my hands on his back. It made me smile. He always complained about my freezing hands and feet. After a few seconds I got closer to him. My stomach close to his back. An arm over his side. I could feel my breath against the back of his neck. I left my other hand on his back. I suddenly felt him move, settling more comfortably into my arms. I left a kiss on the back of his neck. He hummed softly. I let my breathing slow down in the warmth of him. He smelled like himself – soap and a faint yet fresh smell of deodorant - and also like he’d just spent a night on a plane. For some reason this made it all real in my mind. It made him real. 

I liked our lives and how they intertwined. I liked that he had his career and I had mine. I liked the time that we spent together and didn’t mind the time we spent apart. I liked that we could live our lives separately and choose to be together. I liked my independence and when he came home to me. I liked holding his hand as we spent time together and having the apartment to myself so often. I did miss him – I missed his body against mine, his smile, and the way he talked about things he was passionate about – but I also knew that I needed time away from people – often. So this had been our life. There was no jealousy and no envy. We both worked hard and were glad for down time together. But our “lifestyle,” if you could call it that, did take a toll. The transitions, from one environment to another, were always delicate moments, that could not be rushed and that required a form of adaptation, even if it was just coming home. Our reunions were never grandiose for that reason I think. Someone looking in from the outside could have seen them as underwhelming. But if they had known, they’d have seen the fondness and the softness in our gestures. The people around us did think it was odd, that I wasn’t following him everywhere. That there wasn’t more drama. That we didn’t talk about it, about our relationship, more to each other, or to them. I think. Some were starting to ask questions about the future. But this was just background noise that I’d gotten good at ignoring. We were often apart, but when we were together it was mostly just us. I guess we were inseparable only when we were together, if that makes sense.


	3. Awake

I was about to fall asleep when I felt him move. He turned to face me. I kept one hand on his side. He kept his eyes closed and seemed like he was going to keep sleeping. Yet, he placed a hand on my cheek and a kiss on my forehead, his eyes still closed. I smiled. We stayed like that for a while. Then he opened one eye. It looked golden in the sunlight. It was his turn to smile. He blinked a few times. His eyelashes moving a few strands of messy hair as they opened and closed.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” I said.

I didn’t really know what to say, but I liked how big his mouth opened to say the word. So I told him.

“I missed your mouth.”

It made him laugh. The type of laugh that made his eyes disappear a little behind a frown and his lips stretch in an open-mouthed smile. I loved that laugh.

“I missed that too.”

“Were you okay?” There was a touch of worry in his voice. I could hear the fear, that I was unhappy, that this life wasn’t enough for me anymore. And all the consequences that that implied. But there was no need to worry.

“Yeah,” I said, trying a reassuring smile. “I’m fine. Althouth I did miss you a little bit.”

“Only a little bit?” Now he was teasing.

“Sometimes I’m okay and I miss you. Sometimes I’m not okay and I miss you. Busy with work. Spending time on my writing. Sometimes I’m not doing anything and I miss you. Sometimes I’m busy and I miss you. I’m not sure it’s related to anything in particular. Just the thought of you.”

It was hard to explain. I was content when he wasn’t there, knowing that he soon would be. I was happy when he was there, while knowing that he would soon be gone for work. But he wasn’t the only factor affecting my mood. Does that make sense? I was pursuing my professional and creative goals which made me happy and he was pursuing his, which made him happy too. Maybe I would have loved him less if he hadn’t been doing just that. I liked our life the way it was – geographically scattered, and in segments, but with so much love and support, loyalty and laughter. And I didn’t know how to tell him without seeming like I didn’t care if he was there or not. People wondered how we could build a stable relationship on such an unstable life. But we did. I trusted him and he trusted me. We were in this together and we could talk about everything, always finding understanding and encouragement from the other. Some days were hard. We couldn’t always pretend that the outside world did not exist. Sometimes it came crashing into our bubble. But we could always find our way back to each other.

“Well, I missed you tons,” he declared, interrupting all the things I didn’t say, covering my reflections with a childlike honesty and simplicity.

He moved his head closer to kiss me, a hand in my hair. He looked at me for a little while after our lips parted. Our faces were still very close. I wondered if I should have felt self-conscious. But I tended to forget my face and all that could be wrong with it when I didn’t have a mirror in front of me to remind me of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has barely been re-read by me, let alone anybody else. I'd appreciate not only feedback on the story, but if you've spotted any mistakes or anything that I should take a closer look at.  
> Thanks for reading!


	4. "Do I smell?"

“Do I smell bad?” he finally asked.

I looked at him, half-amused, half-confused.

“I mean, I know I basically just got off the plane. And it was kind of a long trip. And then I came straight home. And before I could say anything you were undressing me, and guiding me to the bed – NOT the shower – and talking about a nap, and the bed looked so comfy and I felt sleepy and…”

“Right. You smell and it’s my fault,” I said teasingly, fake reproach on my face.

“So I do smell bad?” he asked again.

I craned my neck to be closer to him, and sniff around his shoulder and collar bone. I smiled as I settled back down on the bed.

“You still smell like you. You who has just spent a few hours on a plane, and in a car, and carrying bags…” I declared with a smile.

“Right. Shower,” he said very quickly, and all of a sudden he was up and walking to the bathroom, and I was left alone under the covers, with a slight remorse and the absence of him.

I wanted to stay in bed while he showered, but I suddenly missed him, and found myself shivering as I followed his steps to the bathroom. He was a bit startled and turned to me as I came in. He smiled.

“Bath?” I suggested.

“Oh my God, yes, please!” He answered.


	5. Let's take a bath

The bathtub was one of the reasons I liked this apartment so much. I could feel his eyes on me as I started the water and chose a bath bomb – a bubbly one. He left the bathroom quickly, coming back with his phone and a speaker. The volume was low and I quickly recognized the playlist he chose – the playlist for lazy Sundays and cold mornings under the blankets. He had many playlists for many occasions – one for his kitchen experiments and one creative afternoons, one for running and one for before a night out with friends, one for car trips and one for sleepless nights of worrying and trying to distract himself from the worrying, one for hushed evenings and the color of his skin in the candle light and the glow in his eye, loving me “so naughty it made me weak in the knees,” and so many more. We took off the rest of our clothes and I took his hand instinctively as we spent the next few minutes listening to the first song and watching the water rise in the tub and the bubbles appear. I forgot everything else I had been thinking about all morning. I placed a kiss on his arm and finally stopped the water and stepped into the tub. He followed me and sat down facing me. He remained a little tense as his body got used to the warm water, but he soon relaxed with a sigh. I started playing with the bubbles. Making odd, evanescent sculptures, as I let my mind go blank. I sang a little bit, without thinking about it, as “Love Is All” by The Tallest Man on Earth was playing. I looked up as I felt his eyes on me. He leaned towards me and cupped my face in his bubbles-covered hands. We kissed. With my eyes closed the music seemed louder, it seemed to cover us entirely, shielding us from the rest of the world. I wondered if he felt it too.

“I missed your voice,” he said. His voice raspy with sleep and cold.

I simply looked at him. My face still in his hands. He kissed me again.

“I missed your mouth,” he added.

Suddenly everything felt more real. Suddenly it really did feel like he was home.

“Come here,” I whispered as I pulled him by the arm softly to encourage him to turn.

He changed positions with a chuckle and a splash of water, and settled between my legs, his back towards me.

He hummed softly as I started pouring water from my hands onto his hair. We did this sometimes. One of us would wash the other, shampoo and soap and soft skin. I can’t remember who started doing that, how we started doing that. I remember it as something that I did without thinking. I grabbed the shampoo and poured some in my hands. I liked the feeling of my fingers intertwined in his soft locks. Sometimes he tilted his head this way and that, silently asking me to pay attention to one spot in particular, as I massaged his scalp and the back of his neck delicately. I don’t even know if he realized he was doing it. I loved him at that moment. Not that I didn’t love him before. But at that moment I could feel it. It wasn’t the quiet certainty it usually was. I could feel it radiate from my body. My fingers felt tingly and goose bumps covered my arms. I felt restless all of a sudden, but didn’t dare move. I wanted to stay in this moment.

After I rinsed the shampoo from his hair, and washed his body with a washcloth, we stayed in the bath for a while. He had moved forward to leave space for me to reach his back. When I finished he settled back down on to me, his back pressed against me. I could feel his muscles tense, trying not to crush me, but I liked feeling the weight of his body on me. It made him real in my mind. It made his presence real.


	6. Lunch

After the bath, after he’d helped me into my white white bathrobe and I’d used a towel to pat the dripping water out of his hair and face and neck, without even talking about it, we both got into the most comfortable clothes we owned and headed to the kitchen. The lasagna had gotten cold by that time. After I put it back in the oven I noticed he was standing in the middle of the kitchen, looking a bit confused. I looked at him for a second. Every time he came home I needed a moment to adjust back to our life as a couple, but he also needed some time, not only to adjust back to us, as I did, but also to adjust back to this simple domestic life, far from work, far from the noise and the lights, the fancy parties and the adoring audiences. I could only imagine it must have felt like a crash from a high, every time . Particularly when he was gone for weeks and then had to get used to the idea of being at home, sometimes with very little work to do, for weeks. I worried about him. I wondered how much of a toll that had on a person’s mental health - even a person as strong as he was or who worked as hard as he did to be strong, to not let things get to him, to acknowledge his privilege, never complaining, never voicing out the exhaustion that came with these emotional highs and lows, focusing on the sources of joy in his life, always. He must have seen the slight frown on my face because I suddenly felt his arms embrace me and my face buried in his chest, in the lingering warmth of the bath and smell of his soap mixed with the scent of the bath bomb.

“Smells delicious,” he said. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

“You worry,” he declared. “Don’t. Whatever it is. It’s just us for a while now.”

“I worry about you,” I said.

He took a step back and looked at me.

“Are you okay?” I asked. “We don’t have to play house and be the perfect couple. If you need time alone or away for a while, it’s okay, you can tell me.”

It made me both sad and glad that he partly functioned as an introvert and needed to be alone to recharge and refocus. It meant that we could understand each other better - as I was myself a complete introvert - but it also meant we sometimes had to ask for time away from each other even when we already spent so much time away from each other. 

“Thank you,” he said. "But this is what I want. I’m okay, don’t worry about me. The nap, the bath, lunch, this is what I need. I’ll let you know if I need time to be alone.”

“Okay.” 

I preferred when we did not have to speak of such things. To be honest I think my ideal relationship would probably involve very little speaking at all. The certainty of it would dissolve the potential drama of sharing your life with someone else - and the need to talk about it and about the logistics of it - to basically nothing. But our lives weren’t that simple. And those moments of transition always caused an insidious sort of anxiety, that I generally projected onto him, that quickly dissolved once we were settled back in our ways, once we’d learned how to exist together again, but that in the meantime felt like a hint of a twisting pain in my lower stomach, a similar sensation to when you suddenly realize the unease you’ve been feeling for the past few minutes or hours is actually the subtle throbbing of menstrual cramps, and you just didn’t realize they were painful until they’d lasted long enough to start bothering you. That type of feeling. But as I remembered it was just a side effect of transitioning back to our life as a "we", I took a breath and felt a bit better. He’d tell me if there was anything.

We sat down to eat at our tiny kitchen table.


	7. Lunch (continued)

“You did some work in the garden,” he said.  
“Yes. Spring is here finally,” I said, suddenly feeling happy at the thought of him in the sun, of how he was always more joyful and energetic in the summer. “So I thought I’d plant poppies.”

“Of course,” he said, looking at me with a smile.

He went on eating. 

“This is so so good.”

I chuckled. He just looked so cute, chewing his mouthful of lasagna, half-hidden under this mop of brown-ish hair, in this huge tee-shirt that I believe had a small hole in it somewhere, a ray of sun falling on his wrists and forearms. 

Dessert was apple and peach compote, a bit of yogurt and some crushed almonds. I remembered at the beginning of our relationship he always thought it so odd that I would have some dessert at the end of every meal, but after a while he stopped commenting on it, and even had some with me most of the time.

He took care of the dishes, as was often our unspoken understanding: if one cooked, the other did the dishes. He hummed and sang softly and often looked out the window as he washed the plates and utensils before setting them to dry. Meanwhile I cleaned the table and the floor, and put the leftovers in the fridge. I watched him as he finished. I wrapped my arms around him, buried my face in his back, between his shoulder blades. He giggled as I slipped a cold hand under his tee shirt. 

I waited until he’d finished.

“Do you want to take another nap?” I asked.

“Do you need to work?” he asked. I smiled.

“No. One of the reasons I’ve been pretty busy lately is actually that I’ve been trying to work ahead. My content is ready. My posts are scheduled. Technically there’s always more work to be done. But I’ve decided I’m all yours for the next few days. They’ll have to deal with the bare minimum.”

“You’re all mine?” He repeated.

“For as long as you’ll have me - and until I go crazy spending so much time with you – yes.”

He shook his head, an exasperated smile on his face. “You could have just said ‘yes’.”

“Do you want to stay in this afternoon? Or should we do something?” I ignored his comment.

“Nap, first. Definitely,” he said.

“Alright. Nap first, think later.”


	8. Afternoon nap

“Keep calm and take a nap,” he said jokingly, taking me by the hand and guiding me to the bedroom. “I know you don’t like naps,” he said once he’d closed the door behind me. “But I love that you still offered, and that you’re not saying no to lying down with me now.”

“I wouldn’t do this for anybody else,” I said with a smile as he leaned down to kiss me.

I closed my eyes and felt his hands finding their way to the hem of my sweater. I was sad to feel his lips pull away as he took it off and left it on the chair next to us.

“My turn,” he whispered. “I feel like if I don’t undress you, you’ll slip away again.”  
He took off my pants and my slippers in one go. Crouching, he looked up to me with a smile, his eyes glistening under his long lashes. I cupped his right cheek with my left hand, stroked his face with my thumb. 

“Now you,” I told him as I stepped out of my pants now crumpled over my slippers. 

“Yes, Ma’am,” he answered as he got up, his voice husky, suddenly a little high, as if already muddled with sleep.

“C’m’ere,” he said, now in his underwear. 

He guided me to the bed as I looked longingly towards the book on my nightstand. He was right, I wasn’t a big fan of naps. I hated the feeling of waking up and feeling so out of it that I barely remembered what was going on in my life, how I got there, what my name was, and feeling more exhausted than I did before the nap. I also hated wasting a perfectly good afternoon. 

Still, I lay down and he lay down. I settled into bed, my back against 2 comfy pillows set against the wall. He came close to me, looking up at me with a question in his eyes.

“Sleep,” I told him. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll just read for a while.”

I grabbed my book from the night stand as he passed a hand under my tee-shirt and started tracing soft patterns on my stomach and ribs. I could feel goosebumps following each light brush of his fingers on my skin, but I soon forgot about them as I started reading, thinking he’d fall asleep soon.


	9. Under the covers

It was only a couple of chapters later that I realized he had not stopped.

“You’re still awake?” I asked. 

“Well, you are too...” he said, pouting.

I put down my book, and turned to face him.

“How are you, my love?” I asked, running my fingers through his hair. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

We were both lying on our sides now, facing each other. He simply looked at me.

“So serious,” I said with a pout. 

I knew I had been acting - not detached exactly - but just like the intrinsic instability of our life together did not affect me much. I hadn’t made any particular effort to stay with him for every single moment since he’d come home that morning. I had left during his nap earlier. I had just been casually reading my book, almost forgetting his presence, until a few minutes before. And I could see now that he’d noticed. And I wondered what he thought about it, if he knew why I was acting that way. The truth is, the reason was that this was my way of protecting myself. It was a way to hold on to a semblance of stability, of normality. Showing him - and myself - that my life went on with or without him, which was true in a way, but it didn’t mean I wasn’t affected by it all, by him not being there and suddenly being there. It just meant that I dealt with it on my own, as best I could. It was a way to limit the regular emotional ups and downs of having him there one day and gone the next. 

This was too serious a topic for a nap. I did not wish to get into that, now that he was tired and we were all comfy in bed. He seemed to think the same thing as he suddenly pulled the covers on top of our heads with a happy giggle. I liked this new, warm cocoon of us. I kissed him. With my eyes closed. With my eyes open. With a smile on my lips. With a hand on his cheek. With a hand on his back, holding him close. Tiny, fluttering pecks and longer kisses that took their time, that explored. And he let himself be kissed. He let himself be held. With a sigh of relief. With a cute frown that wrinkled his nose. With a chuckle. 

After a while I told him:  
“Let’s go get ice-cream.”

He answered:  
“Of course.”


	10. Ice-cream

After a while I told him:  
“Let’s go get ice-cream.”

He answered:   
“Of course.”

And so after mustering the courage to leave our cozy bubble we got dressed again. I had on grey jeans and a basic white tee-shirt of his. A simple zip-up hoodie. A scarf. He was wearing basically the same thing, minus the scarf, plus a hat. 

We headed out and the world felt new. Fresh blossoms glistened in the sun on tree branches, and still there was a faint smell of the night’s rain. I didn’t mind the chilly air, I was happy. Sometimes I grabbed his hand. Sometimes I grabbed his arm. Sometimes I walked ahead, skipping and giggling, just because I couldn’t help myself. Pointing to the dogs we came across and the babies and the flowers and the clouds. And he looked at what I pointed to and he smiled and he talked about this new song he’d heard and this old friend he’d seen during his time away.

We quickly arrived at the ice-cream place and I moved closer to him as we stood in line. I sighed in relief as I buried my face, my hands in the warmth of him. We kissed like teenagers, as if we’d just discovered what making out was and simply couldn’t stop ourselves, our eyes and noses hidden under his hat. We were that couple that no one can stand. We found a spot in the sun to eat our ice cream. I closed my eyes as I ate. Trying to soak in the warmth of the sun rays through my eyelids. Breathing. This was nice.


	11. On the sofa

Back at home we settled in the living room. I had grabbed my book from the bedroom and lay on the couch to read, while he sat on the rug, his back against the couch, and played the guitar. A while later he joined me on the couch, facing me. A plaid on our intertwined legs. And he read while I wrote, reaching out for my left hand once in a while. Unable to resist anymore, I put my notebook aside and switched positions to lie down on top of him. He put his arms around me and kept reading. I simply breathed. I hoped that these quiet moments home felt like coming back to his actual life. That they weren’t just these in-between periods during which he simply waited to go back out again, to go back to his job and his other life. Deep down I knew he needed the quiet and the stability, and I knew he loved me. But I guess I was just still worried about whether these emotional ups and downs were too much. I realized I’d stopped breathing as these thoughts crossed my mind. This was just my anxiety I thought. In my head I started counting for each breath in and each breath out: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. I realized that worrying had prevented me from seeing that I was so very glad he was home. So glad to spend the day with him. So happy to feel so close to him right at that moment. I had to accept that I would not know how he felt unless he shared it with me and that that was ok. I knew he knew himself and knew how to take care of himself. I trusted him and that was enough. I had to let go. Let go and take care of myself, by letting myself feel the happiness, the warmth I’d felt in my heart from the moment I’d heard the key turn in the front door lock that very morning.

I turned to face him.

“I’m happy,” I simply said.

He looked at me and put his book down. He looked at me and brushed my face with his fingertips. He looked at me and simply said “I’m home.” He looked at me and kissed me. Eyes open, they were so close to mine. He looked at me and put his arms around me and I felt safe.


	12. Waiting for him

“I’m cooking tonight,” he announced after a while. 

“What are you cooking?” I asked.

“I’m not telling. I saw this recipe video on Instagram. It looked sooo good.”

“Okay, I trust you. But what about the ingredients?”

“Well I’d have to go out for a little while to buy groceries.”

“You don’t have to do it today you know,” I told him.

“I know. I want to.”

“Alright.”

I watched him as he checked what we already had in the kitchen to determine what he needed to buy. Even though he wouldn’t exactly tell me what he had in mind. And he went out. Hat on his head, music in his ears. He placed an absentminded kiss on my lips before walking out. And I watched him for a few seconds in the orange light of the late afternoon before I closed the door behind him. He’d told me to stay and relax, to stay and that he’d be home quickly. I decided to create a playlist for him, to play later during his kitchen experiments. I put the living room back in order. I made the bed, thinking about how it would feel to sleep next to him later that night. I had to refrain myself from working. Instead I called my mother to tell her I loved her. Then I sang a little bit as I added more songs to the playlist. I put my speaker directly in the kitchen and danced a little to the first few songs. Suddenly I found myself doing what I usually worked hard not to do all those times that he was away: waiting for him. As I realized that my first instinct was to worry about myself and try to shake the feeling, find something to do. But then I remembered that the reason this was happening was because I’d missed him and I was happy he was home. It was a good thing. And so for this short while, I let myself settle into the feeling of missing him. I anticipated his return. I thought of all the things we could do the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. Just the idea of being with him. In the back of my mind part of me was a little scared that this meant I was too dependent on him. But I knew myself and I knew this was just something I accepted to indulge in for a short while.


	13. Teasing

He came back with the groceries. His cheeks and nose cold to the touch as I met him at the door to welcome him back home.

“You missed me,” he said with a mischievous smile after giving me a kiss. 

“I did,” I answered very matter-of-factly. “I made you a playlist.”

“I missed you too.” 

I realized then that although I sometimes worried about how he felt during those transitional moments when he came back or left home, he did verbalize his feelings regularly. Much more than I did probably. To the point of cheesiness sometimes. He did tell me how he felt and I did feel loved and feel a sort of peace and calm emanating from him when he was home. The certainty, the obviousness I felt about us, I felt it echo in him when he was here. 

“You’re kind of a romantic, aren’t you?” I asked him, falsely amused, but really happy and relieved after coming to my quiet realizations.

“You only notice that now?” He answered with a chuckle. “I thought you were more observant. That’s actually one of the things I love about you. I’m kind of disappointed.” 

“Hey!” I protested.

“On the other hand, I’m not the one who just made their boyfriend a mixtape...” he added, in a fake mocking tone.

“It’s a very good mix,” I said with a shrug, taking one of the bags from his hands and heading to the kitchen.


	14. Cooking dinner

He forbade me from helping him cook. So I simply watched him, and washed every dish and utensil he was done with, dancing and singing when I had nothing to do, while he boiled sweet potatoes and washed fresh spinach, pealed pears and crushed walnuts, checking and re-checking the recipe on his phone, a frown on his nose, at times vaguely humming to the music.

Later I recognized one of our favorite desserts when I saw him use lemons and powdered sugar, but didn’t say anything. Instead I turned up the volume on my speaker a little, closed my eyes and breathed. Closed my eyes and danced. I often said that I never felt more myself than in front of blank page with a pen. But I was probably never happier than existing next to him at that moment. In my slippers in the warm light of our kitchen, barely able to make out the poppies outside the windows, against the darkness of an early Spring evening. The chilly air out, crushing against the heat from the oven inside. Him busy with dinner and dessert, focus and excited at once. And so very handsome, hunched over the kitchen counter. Tiredness and messy hair in his green brown eyes. But no desire to go to sleep just yet. And a quiet sort of happiness. My kind of happiness.


	15. Dinner

When I opened my eyes, still dancing, he was looking at me. A look in his eyes. And I looked back. I could feel my mouth stretching into a smile at the sight of him. No sound other than the music still coming from my speaker, and time seemed to stop. Finally, he broke the stillness in the room.

"Dinner's ready," he announced, his voice raspy. 

This got me out of my trance. I went to the counter to bring everything to our small kitchen table. I said "thank you" as we sat down and he said "you're very welcome."

"It's delicious," I said after a few bites.

"Yeah?"

I nodded in approval, my mouth full. 

"Why, thank you," he answered, pleased. "Actually," he added after a few second, "it kind of reminds me of this time when..."

And he started telling this story, and I watched him. I watched him as he forgot his exhaustion for a while, making big hand gestures, making noises. I smiled. I had always thought he was a great storyteller, when he was acting and when he was simply speaking. I was a good storyteller on paper, but he had this capacity to bring any story to life, using simply his voice and body, that I admired and loved.


	16. The end

After dinner I told him he could go rest, that I would take care of the dishes and clean the kitchen. He gave me a soft kiss on the temple before leaving the room.

I switched off the main kitchen light that was starting to hurt my eyes, leaving on only the smaller warmer lamp in the corner. After finishing with the last of the dishes, humming along to the music from my speaker, I wiped the table and counter. I was looking out the window over the sink as I dried my hands with a dish towel. "Moon" by The Swell Season was playing, when I heard him come back from the bedroom. I turned to face him and saw him look at me. He had stopped at the door.

"Hi," he said, with a soft smile.

"Hi?" I replied in turn, hesitantly.

He reached out and placed a hand on my back - over, then under my tee-shirt - as I put the dish towel back in place.

"You finished?" he asked.

I could feel the warmth spreading on my back from where he touched me. I turned slightly to face him and placed my own hand over his extended arm. He was still looking at me. I could feel my chest rising and falling with each breath. Finally, he took my hand softly in his, and led me to the bedroom. 

Through the slightly open door I could see the warm orange light of candles burning. As he pushed open the door and walked into the bedroom he turned to me and the glow of the candles reflected in his darkened pupils. Without a word, I started taking off his tee-shirt as he closed the door behind me.

Home.

 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I made the decision to keep the gender of the narrator undetermined, I also decided to keep this fic (contrary to some of my other work) very PG-13 or even GA, so as to let as much as possible up to the imagination of you, readers. Now you are free to decide on your own what happened in that bedroom, as well as who the narrator is. 
> 
> Thank you for reading :)

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me in the comments who you imagined it with!


End file.
